


What if we existed.

by andyandrew



Category: Death Note, Death Note: Another Note
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-09-18 09:17:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9378197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andyandrew/pseuds/andyandrew
Summary: A collection of memories.





	1. Chapter 1

July 8th, 1995  
United Kingdom, Europe

"Do you think we exist?"

The wistfulness in Beyond's tone took him aback for a moment; subtly, he questioned the fact himself, though he's never had reason to before then.

"I suppose we do." He tried to match that longing in his companion's voice, but in comparison, he sounded mechanical. As always. "Why?"

Beyond's silent then, as a hand reached up. It looked like he was attempting to grab a cloud from the sky. L thought he might be successful - that if anyone could anchor a cloud to the earth, it'd be Beyond.

"Doesn't it feel like..." He hesitated, brows furrowed as he let his hand drop. "Like we're just manifestations. Manifestations of each other's, I don't know...desires? ...I don't know..." There was madness clear in his voice then; madness & insanity in words he, himself, would describe as inane.

But L didn't see it that way. L was hanging on every word Beyond was spewing just then, as blasphemous as the concept itself was. As always, he found it difficult to follow Beyond's train of thought, to truly understand what the other was attempting to get at. It made him feel dumb. Right then, he really did feel tragically dumb.

"What would I be the manifestation of, I wonder..."

"Loneliness." Beyond responded without missing a beat, a decisiveness in his tone. With that, it was obvious he had spent too much time thinking on this topic, but even so, L couldn't disagree.

"Loneliness..." He repeated, nodding at the sky. "& what would you be?"

L expected an immediate answer again, but instead, Beyond's mouth opened & closed just as quickly; a disturbed expression found everywhere but in his empty eyes.

"Brashness, maybe." That was a lame answer & both of them knew it - both of them thought that at the same time.

"Brashness..." Again, L repeated & attempted to let disappointment color the word. "What about ... boredom, instead." It was neither a question nor a suggestion; just as Beyond had chosen his definition, he had chosen Beyond's.

The rejected successor scoffed at that, a lopsided smile appearing on his mouth. "Boredom. I like that."

L could hear the smile in Beyond's tone then, & a similar expression painted his features. "Boredom & loneliness..." It was an entertaining idea, at least; to have been borne of someone else's imagination. "Are you very bored with me, then?"

"Of course not." L thinks his heart had stopped just then, with how resolute Beyond had spoken. "Though you're still lonely with me here." His throat felt like it was tightening & he could only assume it was to keep the fire suddenly scorching his intestines inside. L nodded, because it was all he could do then; though Beyond hadn't been looking for confirmation, he realized after the silence had begun to drag on.

It was just another statement.


	2. Chapter 2

April 3rd, 1988  
Panama, Central America

"Chiquito!" A woman's voice echoed out across the close knit forest-edge hamlet to reach the river bank.

The little boy in question did not call back, as yelling was not something he enjoyed doing; instead, he dropped the frog who he had been having a staring contest with for the passed few minutes & found his way back home at his own pace - despite the urgency in his mother's tone. As he approached the tired looking thatched house, the woman barged out & inhaled, intending to yell louder this time. Instead, she exhaled in relief as her eyes settled on the boy's dirt caked face.

"There you are, boy. Hurry, get inside & wash up. Your father will be here soon, won't he?"

The child nodded & obediently rounded the house to retrieve the pail. It had rained last night & queerly, he preferred that water.

"Had he told you an exact time, boy?" His mother leaned against the sagging house - he wished she wouldn't but would not tell her to do otherwise. Instead, he dipped his cupped hands in the bucket & splashed water onto his face before shaking his head.

The woman huffed in exasperation & mumbled on about about something he could not make out as she shut herself in the house again.

He didn't know why she asked such a question. It seemed rather pointless. Today was his birthday. Last year, his father said he'd arrive at the same time he had this year. Perhaps his mother had forgotten that - perhaps his mother had forgotten what time she had given birth to him.

He would not be surprised.

The water in the pail had turned a sickly brown by the time a swooping sound was heard in the air. It reminded him of an over-sized vulture - even the shadow cast on the ground could be said to look the same.

That was the cue for his mother to barge from the house again & greet his father. They would disappear into the woods now, after his own greeting of a small wave was completed.

The child then sat & waited in front of his house; he preoccupied his mind by collecting questions he had thought to ask his father throughout the year. Other children may had written them down to ensure their preservation over three hundred & sixty-five days, but this particular boy did not see the point in that. He could remember them clearly enough, including what thoughts had led up to which questions & what occurrences were taking place, as well.

For example, a foreign man once visited the village in autumn. He wanted to learn the ways of the people here. A second name was given to him, as typical of their culture. The child recalls staring at the bloody letters above the man's head, wondering if names could change as the digits could & if there was an exact science to that sort of thing.

That would be the first question he'd ask his father, the child thought to himself before continuing down lines of crystal clear memories.

The cruel sun was just interrupted by the horizon as his parents emerged from the forest covered in leaves, dirt, & ghosts. The child's eyes immediately glanced above his mother's head; the smoky red numbers had changed. The five had turned into a six.

He wondered what was so great about screwing a demon, but then curiously questioned how his own numbers fluctuated.


	3. Chapter 3

December 14th, 1996  
United Kingdom, Europe

Staring into the mirror with a perturbed expression, the first child pinched a lock of discolored hair between his fingers. Maybe, he thought, it was a B-12 deficiency (among a slue of other possible causes he chose to ignore). He made a mental note to grab a bottle of over-the-counter melanin the next time he went into town but before he could decide on what to do for the unsightly patch temporarily, a ghost appeared behind him, giving him a start.

The second child snorted as his elder jumped at the mere sight of him. "It should be me jumping, really," Beyond mocked, noting the other's pallid features in the mirror they made eye contact through. "You're nearly translucent at this point."

Rolling his eyes, A dropped his hand which had flung to his chest & diverted his attention back to the splotches of grey & white worming their way through his otherwise dark hair. "You should learn to knock." He retorted, still seeming rather annoyed at Beyond's intrusive appearance.

"& you should learn to go outside more, by the looks of it." The younger quipped back easily, somehow having crossed the distance to be at A's side without the latter noticing. He leaned on the wall then, next to the mirror to see A's face without the filter. "You're rotting."

A hated when Beyond said such ominous things; with those words, he was suddenly aware of how his very cells rushed towards entropy. "We all are." He said, obviously struggling to maintain the airiness Beyond had used.

Tension rose for a moment & A aimed to keep eye contact with himself in the mirror rather than with the apparition staring at him so intensely from the side. It was a typical occurrence at this point, to wonder why Beyond was even here. A nearly asked, his mouth almost opened to question what the younger's presence foreboded of, but Beyond beat him to the punch; which was another trend.

He laughed, the quiet, corrupted sound sending something churning in the pit of A's stomach. "Maybe you should just dye it." Beyond teased. His hand reached out & went to pinch that same lock of hair between his fingers but A maneuvered out of the way first, dipping back slightly & then keeping his head down.

Out of the corner of his eyes now, A thought Beyond's face morphed into an animal's; the younger's mouth seemed to be a muzzle for a moment & that smirk was malicious. If A looked directly at him, would there be blood dripping from those canines?

"White's a good color on you." Beyond observed with finality, though A couldn't say when he had disappeared from view. His voice came from behind, close to the door he'd assume, though he suddenly felt too sick to move his head & check.


	4. Chapter 4

November - February, 2002  
Los Angeles, California

It started out rather innocent. The second time he had been able to call down & order his own breakfast, he asked for white toast & scrambled eggs, just like he had the first time. When asked what type of condiments he'd like, he requested butter & ketchup. The kitchen delivery had left the hall by the time he had slid the plate's cover off, with much difficulty, & saw that instead of a square container of butter, they had given him one of strawberry jam.

He didn't think much of it, honestly, figuring the order had just been mistaken; the phones here were full of static & crackled often. It could've just been that the person on the phone misheard him. It didn't matter. He liked strawberry jam as much as butter on his toast.

The second time something like this happened, he pieced it together simply. It was a week later, during lunch. Now in a decent enough routine of ordering his own food, the kitchen staff recognized his voice after a few words each time. Nevertheless, he aimed to keep the peace & ordered a slice of pizza that was bound to be from the freezer. It took him slightly less time, progressively, to slip off the plate's cover; today, the kitchen deliverer's hauler just began squeaking away as his eyes settled on the familiar square of strawberry jam.

The connection was an easy one to form & he actually found a small bit of humor in it. Someone in the kitchen had alerted the rest of the staff as to who he was, what he had done, & why there were two perpetual guards outside his door who, no doubt, checked each plate of food brought inside meticulously. Well, he had thought, biting into his soggy pizza slice, it seemed the details of his case were finally public knowledge.

From there, receiving a square of strawberry jam with whatever he actually ordered each meal became routine. He wondered if everyone in the kitchen was aware to why they were doing this, or if it had become some sort of inside joke where context didn't apply anymore. For certain he knew, at least, that one person down there figured it out. He also wondered if unnecessary strawberry jam was as far as this little prank would go, or if he should start being a bit wary with what he let himself eat.

Two months passed & he had just begun walking rehabilitation when things got interesting again. The kitchen deliverer smiled at him as she set down his dinner tray; he dared to smile back, sitting there at the edge of his bed. The accomplishment was small, but it placed him in an accepting mood. He'd eat dinner sitting up tonight, but soon wondered if he'd be able to stomach the piece of chicken at all.

He picked up the plate's container civilly & placed it aside. The hauler had hardly left the room by the time his eyes settled on two squares of strawberry jam. He blinked, head cocked to the side, & felt his stomach jump. The notion felt foreboding & self-made premonitions were never questioned.

The next day, he was sure to order nothing that needed a spread for breakfast. Just eggs, he said, to which the man on the other end of the phone repeated like a question. Just eggs. Of course it didn't matter what he ordered; when the plate arrived, again, were two squares of jam. He could not eat his eggs that morning.

This too, became routine, & he did adjust. They started to talk about transferring him, finally, to the long-awaited prison. Now that you can walk mostly by yourself again, they said, the state's going to have less lenience with you. Lenience, he thought, was that what this heavily guarded, solitary rehabilitation was? Lenience? He's scarcely seen a soul, aside from the dreaded kitchen deliverer, in his near half-year stay. Lenience, he grumbled. Lenience would be an asylum from here. At least there he'd have a properly-functioning phone.

He discovered later that the lenience here was found in how undisturbed his stay was. Compared to the events in prison, strawberry jam was welcomed.

The innocence of this prank had nearly dried out. It was finally lost, utterly, when one kitchen staff became brave & slathered the otherwise perfectly cooked piece of pork in obviously store brought strawberry jam. This was a malicious action, he realized immediately. The sting of the jest would've been mildly pacified if the jam used had come from the tiny, square containers he had been accustomed to so far but no; someone had gone out of their way to bring a jar of the stuff to work this day. Insult is often found in one's intention & though he couldn't say insult was what he directly felt, the stranger's scorn was noticed & the meaning to this prank was seen.

He felt haunted, & not because a familiar ghost was fleetingly seen in the mirror this morning. His reputation had already begun to precede him. He couldn't bring himself to complain; in theory, this is what he had asked for. He just didn't expect to live long enough to see it.


End file.
